I’m not getting out of bed a lot earlier than I used to. I wake earlier, and then spend ninety minutes dozing. I suspect that it’s partly down to recovery, and partly down to busy statins doing their work overnight. Then I’m up, two or three espressos, a couple of the nine or ten cigarettes a day I’m allowing myself as a step-down management dose, and then walking two or three miles. Which usually involves listening to music while obsessing over not working. The absurdity of that is that a writer is always working as long as they’re awake. The mind is always spinning and looking for things to grab on to that it can make a story with. It spins and jumps and glares and claws. No peace for you, host creature.
And then you come home and read an article about James Franco doing all the things and listen to a Tim Ferriss podcast about some eight-armed billionaire and you realise it’s time to reschedule because you must feed and hothouse the grabby little bastard in your head that wants to use you up.